


hands clean

by lateralplosion



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Bitterness, Canon Compliant, Drifting Apart, Future Fic, M/M, No Endgame, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:00:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22057423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lateralplosion/pseuds/lateralplosion
Summary: He will never give like this again.
Relationships: Na Jaemin/Park Jisung
Comments: 9
Kudos: 151
Collections: Haggly Holidays!





	hands clean

**Author's Note:**

> please mind the tags! ♡

It's snowing in Incheon when he lands, his padding all rumpled up from stashing it in his bag all flight. Luckily, the flight had been short and smooth, and for that, Jisung is grateful.

The crisp air smarts his cheeks as he steps outside, and he buries his face deeper into his scarf, hitching his bag up higher onto his shoulder. The smell of Korea is familiar—sharp and tang in his nose—but not comforting. Trepidation churns in his stomach as he looks around and sees who's waiting for him at the curb.

"I told you not to come," Jisung mutters, trying to keep all exasperation out of his voice, when he's reached the passenger side of the Tesla, dutifully ignoring the smattering of girls who are trying to take photos of him.

Chenle snorts, already going over to the driver's side of the car. "First time seeing you in a year, and that's all you have to say to me? Wow, Park Jisung—" Chenle slams his door shut as Jisung gets in on the other side. "Japan has made you cold."

Jisung exhales through his nose, a hot wave of guilt unfurling across his face. "Sorry," he mutters, leaning back against the headrest. "I just—didn't want to trouble you."

For a moment, Chenle doesn't respond, pulling away from the curb and drumming his fingers idly on the steering wheel. "You're my best friend," Chenle says finally. "It's never any trouble."

Jisung closes his eyes, the gentle thrum of the engine threatening to send him into slumber. For the next forty minutes, he can pretend that things will be fine. That he's not here to confront his past, to try to reassemble from memory parts of himself that he's long since pushed down. That he'll have to be NCT's Jisung once more, the hard-earned years of solo promotion slipping away and he'll have to, once again, cede to the whole.

Chenle looks up from his phone to peer at the box that Jisung has thrust at him, before glancing up. "What's this?"

Jisung pushes the package at him insistently before sitting down on Chenle's coffee table. "Happy belated birthday," he says. "Sorry, I didn't have wrapping paper—"

Chenle grins, putting his phone down to tear open the box. "Damn, Jisung-ah," he teases, pulling out the shoebox Jisung had tucked inside. "Shelling out a little, huh?"

Jisung doesn't grace that comment with a response, biting down on his tongue as he watches Chenle take the lid off the shoebox to reveal a pair of pristine Balenciaga sneakers. _The latest style_ , his manager had assured him, _not even to be released in stores until next year._ A small kindling of warm pride blooms in his chest as Chenle's eyes go wide and round.

"Holy shit," Chenle says, breathless and hushed. "Jisung-ah, this is fucking awesome—"

It doesn't matter that Chenle could have easily bought the pair for himself. He might have already done so, but Jisung would never have been able to tell. It doesn't matter that Chenle has fifteen other pairs of shoes like this, it doesn't matter that Jisung could not—for the life of him—remember Chenle's shoe size. Because Chenle is looking up at him with the widest grin on his face and reaching over to clap his hand on Jisung's shoulder.

"You really shouldn't have," Chenle blurts out, squeezing tightly. "But—thank you." He holds up the shoebox, almost reverently. "Thank you, I love them so much."

Chenle has always known the right things to say to make Jisung feel at ease, somehow. And, in a way, Jisung is jealous. Jealous that Chenle has never had to experience the crushing anguish of a gift gone wrong. Chenle is good with gifts. Not just in value, but in thought too. And while Jisung had only gained the former recently, he still struggles with giving gifts that don't necessitate awkward silences, with figuring out how to wring out reactions from people he'd once thought mattered more than they did. He knows better now.

Jisung digs his nail into the live edge of Chenle's table, swallowing back the questions he doesn't want to ask. Not because Chenle won't have answers. He probably will. But because they're questions he'd stopped wanting the answers to long ago.

Finally, Chenle breaks the silence. "To be honest, Jisung-ah," he says, almost in a whisper. "They thought you wouldn't come back."

Jisung raises his head to meet Chenle's eyes. "Who's they?"

Chenle swallows. "Jeno-hyung. Donghyuck-hyung."

Jisung's grip on the edge of Chenle's table goes white-knuckled, tightrope fraught. "Ah," he says. Those were names that he wasn't expecting. Chenle's gaze doesn't waver as he continues to look at Jisung, inspecting him down to the insides, the way only his best friend can.

"Mark-hyung and Jaemin-hyung still think that you hate them," Chenle says quietly, and Jisung immediately feels his ribs shift into defense, angling outward to protect his heart.

"I don't—" Jisung starts, and then closes his mouth. Chenle is still looking at him, calm and steady, and Jisung exhales slowly. "It's complicated."

Chenle makes a low, humming sound in his throat. "Do you want to go tonight?"

Jisung knows what the rest of them probably thought of him. That he's gotten so wrapped up in his solo career, in his Japanese promotions, that he no longer spared any thoughts to NCT Dream, or the Jisung he'd once been. In some way, maybe, it was the truth. He was no longer NCT's Jisung. He was Park Jisung, the most popular Korean idol in Japan. Another reiteration of the Lee Taemin dancer to singer success story. Another BoA, laying his roots down in a country he could not—by definition—call home. But some part of him, the tender part that he hides behind his bones—that part maybe still cares.

"Renjun-hyung called me," Jisung admits, finally, after another moment of silence. "He asked me to come."

At this, they both share a sad and knowing smile. That one doesn't need explaining, because Chenle knows it all too well. The way they were all susceptible to the enigmatic pull of their second oldest, the one who's hardly ever asked anything of them, even when NCT Dream was still seven-strong, six-strong. For all that Renjun liked to affect egocentricity, to proclaim self-reliance and unapologetic pride, favors like these were rare to come. So whenever he did ask, they all would answer. Chenle knows this. Had dropped everything he was working on in Seoul to accompany Renjun to Jilin when Renjun's grandmother passed away. Jisung, too, could not say no to Renjun, not when Renjun is one of the few left whose respect Jisung treasures most.

Sometimes, it truly is that simple.

Renjun asked. So Jisung came.

"Ah, well—" Donghyuck scratches the back of his neck, glancing around at the room. "This is fucking awkward."

"Donghyuck-ah," Mark says, voice a little strained. "Please."

Jisung should be feeling worse about the situation. All seven of them, together after four years of scattered solo activity and inexplicably unfair subunit groups, crammed together in a private room at the back of Haidilao in Myeongdong. Mark is in the middle, Renjun and Donghyuck on either side of him. Jisung is sitting at the far end next to Chenle, but on the other side, on Jeno's left—

"Jisung-ah," Jaemin calls down the table. "Come over and sit with me here," he says, patting the empty chair next to him.

It's an attempt at a normlacy that had long since died, but Jisung sees right through it, down to the Greeks inside. He has not been Jaemin's _baby maknae_ in almost five years, nor has he spoken to Jaemin in nearly two. Jaemin had been the last to arrive, and for ten fleeting minutes, Jisung had almost hoped that Jaemin wouldn't show up at all. 

But Jaemin is here, five years of hurt embodied on the other side of the table. Jaemin is looking at him like Jisung's going to bolt any minute. He's almost right.

Jisung smiles stiffly before shaking his head. "I'm good here," he says, in a tone that can't quite color over the sharpness in his words. "Thanks."

For a moment, Jaemin's expression shutters, but he leans back in his chair all the same. Chenle jabs his elbow into Jisung's ribs, so Jisung jabs back. He doesn't expect Chenle to understand. 

"I just—" Renjun starts, then cuts himself off, spending a few moments staring them all down like he's daring anyone to cut him off. No one does, so Renjun clears his throat, brows drawing together. "I—you know that Jeno and Jaemin are enlisting in February. I just—I figured we should have a get together before we all split up again."

Something about seeing Renjun overextend his heart has Jisung's own doing uncomfortable somersaults in his chest. He looks away, his face burning. Perhaps, more than anyone, he knows just how much Renjun hates admitting to any kind of sentimentality. In this, they are the same. They both wear their armors inside out, hard side in, caging in feelings that are too messy too dissect. Jisung looks up at Jaemin, his mouth flattening, then back to Renjun.

Donghyuck puts a hand on Renjun's arm. "It's okay, Renjun-ah." Donghyuck won't be going until the year afterwards, already tied down to solo album promotions and an NCT U comeback in the early spring.

Jisung swallows over a tongue that's gone uncomfortably dry, sandpaper in his mouth—grinding down all the words he has left to say, until all he can manage is a sigh. He crosses his arms. "They'll be back before you know it, hyung," Jisung tells Renjun directly, and tries his best to ignore Jaemin looking back at him on Renjun's other side. "You won't even notice they're gone."

A visible wince goes around the table, but Jisung ignores that too.

Dinner afterwards is a quiet affair, the small talk that somehow and inevitably turns to work going sour. There isn't much to say. Chenle has been spending most of his time ferrying back and forth between Seoul and Shanghai. Donghyuck has never stopped being busy. Jaemin and Jeno both went back to acting. Renjun has put himself heart, body, and soul into his radio show. Mark is producing songs for the Rookies. And Jisung—

"How's Japan?" Jeno tries, after another topic that Donghyuck tried to start fails and dies. Jeno is looking at Jisung, who had been busy trying to decide when he could leave without it looking awkward.

Jisung gives him a small, forced smile. "It's fine. My Japan tour is next year," he says. "So I probably won't have time to come back to Korea for a while."

Jaemin, who had been watching Jisung this entire time, shifts in his seat. "Can we come?"

Jisung locks his eyes onto Jaemin, just for a moment, and feels his insides contract into a hot, iron core. "It's when you're filming," he blurts out. "Sorry."

He can't quite parse the expression on Jaemin's face, then, how it goes from startled, to confused, to a quiet, resigned defeat. "I just thought that—" he begins, then shakes his head. "Nevermind."

Renjun makes a choked off noise, and they all turn to look at him. His face is scrunched up, eyes shiny and large—a telltale sign that he's about to start crying—and Jisung's heart twists painfully in his chest. "Really, Jisung-ah?" Renjun demands, glaring up at him. "This is the last time we'll probably meet before Jaemin and Jeno—" Renjun cuts off as a dry sob envelops his next words, and all the rest of them can do is sit there and watch, guiltily. Renjun brings his hands up to his face to swipe furiously at his eyes. "I know we're all done for anyway, but can we just fucking—have _one_ night without arguing—"

"Renjun-ah," Donghyuck starts, reaching out for him, but Renjun pushes up from the table and promptly storms out of the room. They all stare after him in a stunned silence for a tense moment, before Donghyuck immediately follows. Jeno wastes no time in going after Renjun as well, but not before giving Jisung a long and searching look. 

Jisung exhales through his teeth, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. 

"Jisung-ah," Mark says faintly, but Jisung ignores him. Jisung doesn't want to hear what he has to say. Not about this, and not from him.

Not from Mark, for whom Jisung's lost all his reverence, who doesn't know what it's like to be ignored or rejected. Mark, who's done absolutely nothing wrong, yet for whom resentment is still looping its coils—dark and ugly—around Jisung's ribcage. 

Mark drums his fingers on the table, looking—at twenty eight—more tired than Jisung has ever seen him. Maybe once, before Jisung had fabricated excuses to turn his hurt into a quiet simmering fury, Jisung would have stopped. Checked himself, slowed down. But he doesn't.

Jaemin puts his hand on Mark's shoulder, and that does it for him. He stands up and grabs his jacket.

"Where are you going?" Jaemin calls, brows knitting together. Mark is not even looking at Jisung anymore, resigned gaze now turned downards. "Jisung-ah—"

"What, hyung?" Jisung all but snaps, turning over his shoulder. Chenle scoots his chair back, halfway out of his seat, but Jisung makes eye contact with him to shake his head. "To be honest, I'm only here cause of Renjun-hyung. I don't really have anything to say to you."

And as he leaves, he hears Jaemin calling his name, but he doesn't stop. He doesn't care. 

Jisung thinks, sometimes, it might have happened after what Chenle refers to as _the split_ but the company had instead taken to calling _promotional pockets_. Jisung had been the last member remaining in Dream, but he'd already known that the future for 7Dream as they once knew would never come to fruition. The fans—the _fans—_ had been so disappointed. And if there's anything that Jisung hates more than anything, it's disappointing the fans.

He stands outside Haidilao, exhaling pearly clouds into the air and stuffing his shaking hands into his pockets. He'd forgotten to bring gloves, even though Chenle had nagged that it would be cold. He'd texted Chenle just now. _Leave without me,_ he'd told him. _I'll call you later._ Chenle hadn't asked him any questions. One of the things that Jisung always liked most about Chenle.

Gravel crunches on the ground behind him, and it takes everything in him to not turn around.

"Jisung-ah."

Jisung stiffens. It's Jaemin. Hot salt pricks the corners of his eyes, and resolutely holds his stance. 

Jaemin is already trying to turn him around, a gentle hand in the crook of his elbow, but Jisung shrugs his hands off. "Go away, hyung."

"Jisung-ah—" Jaemin tries again, voice going strained. "What the hell, seriously—" He gets a hand on his shoulder and wrenches him around, and this time Jisung is too caught off guard to prevent otherwise.

And like this, in the mauve, dusky light of December, Jaemin is standing there, lit up by street lamps that send his hair into a burnished bronze. At twenty seven, Jaemin is so much more handsome than he was at twenty-two, when he left Jisung's heart to bleed out by itself in a dusty practice room. 

Jisung feels his face crumple against his will, all the years and years of hurt seeping raw and hot back into his body. "Please don't touch me," he whispers, watching the way Jaemin tenses and pulls back.

"Jisung-ah—what happened?" Jaemin whispers. and it strikes Jisung then that this is what will always hurt the most. That fact Jaemin doesn't know the extent of Jisung's hurt, the wounds he's carried around inside himself like his most well-worn secrets. In truth, he's never told anyone just how much Jaemin's hurt him, but it still stings to learn that Jaemin had never figured out on his own.

Jisung is not like Chenle or Jaemin. He's never been good at gift giving. This is something Jisung's had to learn the hard way, suffering through years of bad gifts to his older and his parents, things that he'd find out later they had exchanged or returned for something else. Jisung's always had to fumble his way through what he really wants to say, the fact of the matter. Jisung isn't good with words either.

But this was never true for Jaemin, who'd always find a way to make every present feel special. When he was twelve, Jaemin had shared with him half his Melona bar after dance practice. That was the first gift Jaemin had ever given him.

When he was sixteen, Jaemin had bought him a launchpad to use for their first Dream Show. Jisung remembers how expensive it was, but Jaemin hadn't even hesitated, making the purchase even though Jisung hadn't asked. 

So when Jisung was twenty, he tried giving back to Jaemin something in return—a dance. A dance that he had spent weeks choreographing, after weeks of agonizing over the perfect song. 

Jisung had loved the song— _All This Time_ by OneRepublic, something he'd stumbled upon after going through Donghyuck's Spotify on their last flight to Malaysia—and he loved the choreography. He loved everything about it, the way he thought it could say so much more than a tangible present, the way he was so sure it would be something that Jaemin would cherish. The way it was almost, in a way, a confession.

He remembers Jaemin watching when Jisung finally performed it for him one week before Christmas in the quiet of their old dance studio, just before Jaemin went home to his family. The way that Jaemin had watched carefully, intently—the lines of his mouth never quite betraying him. It was only two minutes max, but the dance stretched on for what felt like hours, like every beat of time was a slow unfurling of fingers into the silence around them. And after Jisung was finished, standing there with his shoulders heaving, Jaemin had only smiled. 

"That was pretty, Jisung-ah," he'd murmured then, and then checked his phone.

Jisung never forgave him for that. Not after he and Jaemin went back to the others, and not a word was said about the dance. Jisung had at least expected Jaemin to make a comment to the others, but none ever came. He can still remember the smile on Jaemin's face, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. It was the kind of smile that Jaemin only used when he didn't know what to say. Jisung has since learned that Jaemin very frequently does not know what to say. That this is, perhaps, one thing he'll forever hold against him, that Jaemin never gave him the words that Jisung so desperately needed, especially in that moment.

Jisung had told himself that it would pass, that he would learn to heal over the shrapnel and move on. But then, the next day, Mark surprised them all with presents for Christmas, and he'd given Jaemin a brand new computer. For the next for days, Jisung's Instagram feed had been filled with nothing but photos of Jaemin's new iMac, the way it was perfect for editing his photos, how excited he was to be using it.

And, still, never a single word about his dance, nothing aside from that one small phrase. _That was pretty, Jisung-ah_.

It wasn't fair. It was never fair. Maybe he'd known this all along, that things would never be fair when it comes to being in a team. When people like Mark would get everything and anything all at once, and everyone—Jisung included—would love him dearly for it. Except now, Jisung knows better. He knows that anger, like love, is a choice. He knows that love, like anger, could be washed away with one comment. 

Jisung wipes his eyes and pulls his arm back from Jaemin's grip. "I knew it," he mumbles, and takes a step back. He remembers what it used to feel like, the two of them. How they used to be. NCT Dream, and not just Park Jisung and Na Jaemin and a handful of empty spaces. Not just Jisung and his burning regret, the secrets he would carry for the rest of his life.

Jaemin's eyes darken, but he doesn't try to follow. "About what?"

Jisung shudders out a breath. "You can be so cruel, hyung."

Jaemin goes quiet, then, but Jisung is already walking away from him, not giving Jaemin any chance to respond. But even if he did, Jisung wouldn't answer. He doesn't owe Jaemin anything. Not now, not anymore. Not when he'd given up too much of himself, only to have it shut down. 

Because Jisung is bad at giving gifts. He tried, once, but he already knows.

He will never give like this again.

**Author's Note:**

> title from _hands clean_ by alanis morissette ♡


End file.
